Fallen Angels
by This is My Truth Tell Me Yours
Summary: Drabble Collection (Each is exactly 500 words long). Not all Slytherins are blind followers of the Dark Lord. These are stories about Slytherin characters who are young, curious, confused, afraid, lonely or in love... And because they are not ordinary people, these situations and emotions could never be ordinary. Newest Drabble: Rabastan Lestrange
1. Fear - Barty Crouch Jr

_**Disclaimer:**_ _The ideas are mine, the characters belong to JK._

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 _ **Character:**_ _Bartemius Crouch Jr._

 _ **Prompt:**_ _Five minutes to midnight_

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 _"If we suddenly fall should I scream out /_ _Or keep very quiet and cling to/_ _My mouth as I'm crying /_ _So frightened of dying /_ _Relax yes I'm trying /_ _But fear's got a hold of me /_ _Yes, this fear's got a hold of me"_

 _ **Death, by White Lies**_

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 **Fear**

Five minutes to midnight. It was December, and the cold wind invaded the house through the carelessly open window, rendering whatever heating spells might be in place ineffective. Bartemius wanted to feel the cold. He took of his shirt and shivered from head to toe for a second when the first gust of winter wind embraced his naked torso. He closed his eyes. Then opened them up again and glanced at his wrist watch one more time.

The room was small. He barely took one step and laid down, his shirtless back flat against the icy floor, and every hair in his body standing on end. It was almost as if the cold had taken form, sinking its long fingers into his skin, grabbing his lungs, making it difficult to breath. Numbing his higher thoughts, thoughts of the choice he was struggling to make. The cold itself caused him pain. Not a lot, though, just enough.

Midnight. Barty reached for his wand, pointing it up to some books in the upper shelves, making them fly over his head. It was a childish, pointless spell, but he did it because he could. He could now, that is. He was officially seventeen years of age. The trace had worn off. In a way, he was free.

 _In a way_ , the young Slytherin thought angrily. In so many other ways, he was still completely stuck, with no idea what to do with his life whatsoever. He often felt... Different, even brilliant, when he compared himself with kids his own age. He understood things quickly, learnt spells faster, remembered things few others could. Sometimes he even believed he would do great things, incredible things, and most days, he was sure he would never be a menial public servant like the indignant father who'd given him his name. _Have you ever felt like you were meant for something bigger? Something special?_ Barty did...

The envelope with his O.W.L. results lied crumpled inside the dustbin half a metre away, whispering that these thoughts of greatness were nothing but wishful thinking. He had barely gotten passing grades in most subjects, as his father kept reminding him, grief and disappointment in the old man's voice. Most days, Barty didn't mind. But sometimes those grades made him wonder. Perhaps he would never be more than a disappointment. Perhaps he was destined to be- ordinary. And these dark thoughts filled him with fear...

Levitation spells were too easy. Barty needed something more challenging.

A cockroach climbed up his wall. One word, _Accio_ , and it was in his hands. One more word, _Crucio_ , and it rolled to the floor, moving its tiny legs in the air, in agony. That was what pain was supposed to look like. It didn't last long though. He did it again. That was more like it. He had had a good teacher.

 _Crucio_ , he whispered one more time. If the cockroach could scream, would it be screaming right now? Perhaps one day he would find out.

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 _ **AN**_ _: This is a drabble collection for my_ _ **Slytherin Boot Camp**_ _, combined with the_ _ **Music Apreciation Challenge.**_ _Each chapter will be inspired by a word prompt from the bootcamp, a song by White Lies and an Emotion. They are each exactly 500 words long. Some of the drabbles may be combined with other challenges as well._

 _Slytherin is a very misunderstood house. I think we need more stories on Slytherins who are curious, afraid, young or in love. It is my intention to depict Slytherin characters as more than blind followers of Voldemort. Whether or not I succeed, its up to the readers to decide._

 _Please, **review**. I would like to have some feedback on these. _


	2. Shame - Regulus

_**Disclaimer:**_ _The ideas are mine, the characters belong to JK._

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 _ **Character:**_ _Regulus Arcturus Black_ _ **Prompt:**_ _Used_

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 _"So if you go and leave recklessly_

 _We can only be mean, we can only be mean_

 _That's something I, through the tons of my life,_

 _Never wanted to be, never wanted to be."_

 _ **Getting Even, White Lies**_

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 **Shame**

Regulus had been alone in his bedroom for some time when the loud pop of Kreachers' apparition magic was heard and the house-elf materialized over his rug, begging for forgiveness. His blood shot eyes were reddish and soared, one of them black from a heavy blow. His face was still wet with tears. His body was covered in bruises and cuts and there was blood dripping on the floor.

The bones of his leg were broken. It lay motionless in an awkward angle, as the elf dragged himself to the door. He was in pain, but to barge into his master's chambers unannounced was a terrible crime for a house-elf, and that was why, in spite of his condition, Kreacher talked so desperately about punishing himself.

Regulus jumped off his bed immediately and kneeled down to help the house-elf. _"It's okay, Kreacher, I ordered you to come to my room, remember?"_ he lied.

Regulus fixed the broken bones with a spell and pointed the wand to the cuts and bruises, whispering powerful healing enchantments that sounded a lot like a mournful song. That was his fault. When the Dark Lord mentioned he required an elf, Regulus volunteered. Whatever the job, Kreacher was the best. He was not an ordinary house elf, he was his friend.

After a while, Regulus picked Kreacher up on his arms and took him to his bed. The elf was confused, moaning in pain, speaking words that didn't make sense. Echoes of terrible memories and bad dreams. Water. He asked for water.

" _Aguamenti"_ , Regulus whispered, and dropped the water into Kreacher's dry lips. The young man caught a glimpse of the dark skull carved in his forearm and for the first time, Regulus regretted it. He felt used. He had no idea that Kreacher would be tortured, but that was hardly an excuse. The dark mark on his skin made him just as responsible.

Had he not hurt others just as badly? Had he not done worse?

Kreacher drank the water eagerly, and Regulus watched. He watched his loyal companion of so many lonely hours in his youth, and wondered how could he have been such a fool? The dark lord shows no respect to anyone. How could he be expected to show respect to such a defenseless creature?

Like a comedy of errors, it all came back to Regulus. The fanaticism, the purposelessness, the desperate need to be feared. But Regulus was not afraid. He was ashamed. Of not putting up a fight, of being so vain... The Dark Lord branded him to make clear that Regulus' body and life belonged to him, but if he thought that was all Regulus had he was mistaken.

For the first time to Regulus' eyes, Kreacher seemed immensely old. The elf used to take care of him when he was sick. Now the roles were inverted, and Regulus would do his part. He would do better. As Regulus held the elf's hand he was sure…

He would atone.

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 _ **Author's Note**_ _: How was this one? I have this written for a while, updated here from an old account. It just fits in this drabble collection_


	3. Blood Thirst - Walden Mcnair

_**Disclaimer:**_ _The ideas are mine, the characters belong to JK._

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 _ **Character:** Walden Mcnair_

 _ **Prompt:** Blood thirst_

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 _"I was waiting on the backseat of the car_ _"_

 _ **Bad Love, by White Lies**_

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Sharpening an axe is a difficult task. It's not quite the same as sharpening a knife; it's more dangerous. One can't actually move the axe over a bench stone, for instance. It is the sharpener that moves around the weapon, which places the hands of whoever is doing that dangerously close to the blade. The axe itself must be held in awkward ways, and the smallest slip of the hand could mean serious injuries, from severed fingers and toes to the loss of enormous quantities of blood.

Sharpening an axe was not something that could be accomplished with the wave of a wand. That may seem strange at first, but the truth is, not many wizards found themselves in need of such instruments. An axe, – _or a knife, or a chisel,_ they would argue – can not do anything a Severing charm can't. Walden disagreed. He was not the only one of course, but most of the others protected their hands with thick dragon hide gloves.

Walden McNair had taught himself to edge his weapons with bare hands. His skin was carved with scars; momentos from that distant learning period.

He had built that particular axe himself. It was a mediocre weapon, with a rough handler, made of unpolished wood. A crude instrument for the unworthy task of slaughtering beasts and animals for the ministry of magic. His noblest weapons – an inheritance from his father's family – should be spared the indignity of that job. Lucius Malfoy had gotten him that position. Malfoy. If the pure-blood community knew half the things written in the journals of Walden's ancestors about the activities conducted by the Malfoys in the past, their name would be dragged in the gutter. But that was distant time, before the McNairs and their close cousins, the Gaunts, fell in disrepute. Now, Malfoy was a wealthy lord and Walden was an executioner.

Not that he didn't enjoy it. The resistance given by muscles and bones to the blade traveled through the handler till his arms, giving him the chills. Shivers of excitement ran down his spine, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as he watched the blood pouring out, splashing his face. The colours. The smells. The taste. It made him feel so alive! But he missed his human victims.

Hippogriffs and Trolls did not have fear in their eyes as the axe went down. Some of them became agitated, but it was nothing compared to the panic spurred by the awareness of one's own death. Beasts and animals can not speak. They did not ask to be let go. They did not promise him money, as if that was what it was all about. They didn't threaten him with revenge, shouting all sorts of insults. They did not tell him about their kids, as if he would take pity and spare them. They did not beg for their lives.

And they did not cry. Tears were were particular to men.

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 _AN: Please, **review.** if you have the time... When I wrote this, I was thinking of that discussion between William of Baskerville and Jorge in The Name of the Rose. About how, laughter is particular to man. Well, the same goes for tears, right?_


	4. Love - Mrs Zabini

_**Disclaimer:**_ _The ideas are mine, the characters belong to JK._

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 _ **Character:** Mrs. Zabini_

 _ **Prompt:** Dawn_

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 _"This is not bad love_ _"_

 _ **Bad Love, by White Lies**_

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Love

"You have to leave,"

"Yes," he said, reaching out to hold her hand, "In the morning."

His voice sounded tired, but he was smiling. Unable to reach her hand, he tried to touch her face but his fingers had barely touched her when she pulled away. Her skin was cold. He could barely believe it was the same witch who, just a few minutes earlier, welcomed the touch of his hands.

She looked down at him as though she couldn't understand what he was still doing there.

"What?" He asked aggressively, understanding coming to him for the first time.

She breathed slowly, and looked down at him for a moment. He was rather handsome. Tall, and strong with meaningful green eyes. A credit to his pure-blood line. But it was almost dawn and she had no time for him anymore.

"Are you throwing me out?"

"I already have,"she said softly, walking towards the door. "When I come back you won't be here."

That was a warning. Then she opened the door and walked into the adjoining room.

Blaise was there, laying on his crib. She walked in time to see him opening his eyes. He always woke up at the crack of dawn.

And he never cried. She stood by the window for a few moments, watching her baby as he lifted his arms quietly, trying to catch the paper angels she had enchanted to fly above his cradle. That never failed to make her smile.

After a while she picked up the baby, wrapped in a bundle of blankets. They crossed the bedroom she'd just left to reach the corridor. The room was empty now.

The whole house was silent. It was a large manor with dozens of rooms spread across three storeys. It had been passed through the Zabini line for many generations. It belonged to her now.

Before long the two of them reached her favorite room. The room with the fireplace. The door was already open and the fire had been lit by the house-elf, according to her orders. She walked towards the armchair in front of the fire and sat down carefully, holding the baby with her left arm. When she was comfortable, she looked down at her young son. Loosening the blankets wrapped around him she touched his cheek softly with the back of her fingers. He was perfect.

"My little prince," she whispered softly, using the nickname she had given Blaise since before he was born.

His father had died barely a couple of weeks after Mrs. Zabini discovered she was expecting a child. The baby was four months old now, but in a way, it had been just the two of them for quite some time.

The young women could never have anticipated how taken she would be by this child. How comforting it was to feel his skin against hers, to know that he was safe in her arms.

"I love you," she whispered and kissed the top of his head.

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 _ **AN:** I though the contrast of Mrs. Zabini's attitude towards men and towards her son would give a nice drabble. I am not sure this one is a good one though, I might have to re-write it later on... In any case, please **review** and let me know what you think..._


	5. Sorrow - Walburga and Orion Black

_**Disclaimer:**_ _The ideas are mine, the characters belong to JK._

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 _ **Character:** Walburga and Orion Black_

 _ **Prompt:** Stars_

 _ **Emotion** : Sorrow_

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 _" Saw you run from the cold out of my arms_

 _Your mother cried for years_

 _She cried for years."_

 _ **Taxidermy, White Lies**_

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 **Sorrow**

Walburga looked at the ancient tapestry, silently conjuring the green flames that emerged from her wand. The fire burned slowly and for the longest time Sirius' face could still be seen through the flames.

Sirius. She'd chosen that name just weeks before his birth. She remembered shivering with cold. Orion had suggested she should get inside, but she refused, so her sleepy husband wrapped his arms around her and conjured blankets to keep her warm. She looked at the stars and chose to name her son after the brightest light in the sky.

Sirius had always been difficult. Even as a toddler, it seemed impossible for him to do as his father said. Orion would forbid Sirius to fly alone, but the boy wouldn't listen. His father would punish him, and he'd disobey again. Sirius would run away and they'd go after him. It was like ordering the waves to stand still. Orion punished him, but secretly, he admired his son's spirit, the young heart that wouldn't yield.

It didn't seem like that long ago when Sirius' name had been written on that tapestry and this room had been crowded with guests.

Tonight however, as their son was pruned out of the family tree like a diseased branch, there were only the two of them.

Orion's heart was full of sorrow as he watched his wife across the room.

Last night, he caught her crying. Orion could hear her through a crevice in the door. He didn't walk in. She would't want him to. Walking in would've felt like intruding upon something private, almost indecent. But he stood outside the door, because he wanted to be there for her. He wanted to tell her that he didn't think she was weak for crying; he understood.

This was worst than burying his son. They'd never mention his name again. It'd be as though Sirius had never existed; as though Walburga had never carried him inside her; as though Orion had never held his baby boy against his chest, nursing him back to sleep on a stormy night.

Looking at the flames was more than Orion could take, but Walburga never looked away. Her expression didn't betray her true feelings. She was so strong.

After a moment, Orion walked across the room and held his wife in his arms. He couldn't find the words to say what was in his heart, so he kissed her, pulling her closer to himself. She held him tight, as if she was afraid he would walk way, and he understood that she needed him too. Then they kissed again, perhaps more passionately than ever before; a kiss that seemed to last for several minutes, full everything that could only be shared by the two of them.

Even after their lips parted, they would not let go of each other. She lay her head on his chest and he closed his eyes. The flames had died. Neither of them looked at the burnt spot on the wall.

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 _ **Author's Note**_ _: I have recently read a story about Sirius running away from the perspective of Regulus. In it, Sirius was all his parents talked about, as problem-children often are, and Regulus was upset at this, at often being cast aside, in favour of his disobedient brother. It occurred to me that that is really believable, that a younger dutiful son might feel just that way. I had never really considered this before - it was much more natural to me to see things from Sirius perspective only: the oldest, rebellious son, whose parents were terrible to him. Now I'm thinking that, even though they were terrible to Sirius, they couldn't have been all bad, and this story is attempt at writing Orion and Walburga as more tridimensional, less shallow characters. I hope I have done a good job. I had to cut out a lot, because these drabbles are supposed to be exactly 500 words long, but I think it's a good drabble. And I have more material to write another - longer - story on Orion and Walburga._

 _The party in which Sirius name was written on the tapestry was mentioned on the second chapter of another one of my stories: "Never let me Go"._

 _I wrote this for the **The Weird Prompt Strikes Back! [Daily Competition]** [Prompt: Orion/Walburga (requited)] and the **Greek Mythology Mega Prompt Challenge** [Cronus - Write about a disappointed parent]._

 _Please review, I would love to get some opinions on this. It is my first Orion/Walburga piece._


	6. Powerlessness - Rabastan Lestrange

_**Disclaimer:**_ _The ideas are mine, the characters belong to JK._

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 _ **Character:** Rabastan Lestrange_

 _ **Prompt:** Fragile **Emotion:** Powerlessness_

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 _"Don't lay a finger, I said, but he held her with five / Kissed the crest of her lips and put his hands on her tigh."_

 _ **The Price of Love, by White Lies**_

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A fire was crackling.

Above the fireplace there was a portrait. Two young wizards, one sitting, one standing up. It had been painted by their mother, more than a decade ago. Once that painting had depicted two little boys, but not anymore. The portrait had been enchanted so that the painted boys would grow up and change as did their flesh-and-blood counterparts. Older than their mother would ever live to see them.

There could be little doubt that the young man in the chair was the elder. Although he was not yet 20, with his unshaven looks, large shoulders and taunting smile, he might have been mistaken for a 23 or 24 year old. His younger brother, on the other hand, hardly looked older than seventeen. He looked bewildered and almost uncomfortable to be on display like that. He lacked his brother's laid-back posture, but even in that painting, he had strikingly meaningful green eyes.

Rabastan's real eyes showed concern as he leaned towards the fainted girl on the chaise long. She was blinking heavily, awaking from a magically induced stupor, when another person walked in.

Rabastan stood up immediately, facing his older brother at the door. They were both pointing wands at one another.

"Don't lay a finger on her."

"Or what?" Rodolphus asked.

The two of them were strikingly different. Rabastan was leaner and taller than Rodolphus, whose thickset built made him look much more fearsome.

Next to his brother, Rabastan looked almost as fragile as the girl he was trying to protect.

With a gesture of his wand, Rodolphus pushed Rabastan all the way across the room, his back breaking through the doors of an old wooden closet, filled with books.

"Rodolphus-" Rabastan began, but his brother had reached the girl and was now using his wand to tear a slit on her robes, exposing her legs. She had no strength to pull away. "Leave her alone!"

Rodolphus' smile widened. He used another spell to lift the girl from her place, and watched her floating a couple of inches from the floor. Rabastan straightened himself up, groping for his wand and tried to invest against Rodolphus, but ended up bouncing against some sort of invisible wall his brother had conjured to keep him away. Rodolphus laughed. Then he kissed her.

The kiss was violent. Difficult to watch. He was impetuous, squashing her nose, licking her face and biting her lips and tongue until they bled. When he came out for air, her face looked red and wet. It looked hurt.

"You have to find your own girls, brother. This one is going to be my wife," he said.

He placed a hand on her inner thigh and a single tear fell from Bellatrix' eye.

It was only when Rodolphus left with Bella that the invisible wall was dropped. Rabastan rushed to the door to find it locked, banging his fists against the wood. He had never felt so powerless.

The painted version of himself had left.

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 _ **Author's Note:** It's been a while since I last updated this collection... It's part of my head-canon that Bellatrix was very traumatized when she was young, and that's one of the things that contributed to her descent into madness. I also think Rabastan was the one that actually loved her... I might be wrong, but it was still interesting to write about._


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